Ten Embarrassing Truths

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I’ve spent the morning writing about some pretty heavy stuff and I just learned some very upsetting news about a friend. I’m ready to lighten the mood a bit. So, now for something completely different:

Ten Embarrassing Truths Revealed (Many for the very first time)

1) I am absolutely terrible about getting haircuts. I just had my first one since September. I don’t know why I’m so bad about them. I always intend to be better, but…

2) I can barely ride a bike (discussed in Learning to Go Downhill). It’s shameful since my dad is an uber bike rider and I’m so athletic.

3) Sometimes at night I pig out on a concoction of Greek yogurt, peanut butter, Splenda brown sugar and chocolate chips. In large quantities.

4) I wear this pair of sweatpants all the time around the house. They’re way too big and don’t even stay up. Even plumbers would be embarrassed.

5) My sneeze sounds like a barking chihuahua, in volume, sound and duration. All heads turn when my sinuses let go.

6) I gave up on cleaning my car about 6 years ago. In all other areas of my life, I am neat and clean. My car, however, is covered with black stuff on the outside and dog hair on the inside. Luckily, Tiger is my primary passenger.

7) Since I received my Kindle, I’ve started reading trashy novels. I pretend that it’s only because I can get them for free through Amazon or the library, but that’s just a rationalization.

8) I only learned how to pronounce “caprese” a couple months ago and I order caprese salads all the time.

9) I’m never sure how to spell “restaurant.”

10) I only know the names of a handful of my “gym buddies.” I’m bad about not paying attention to their names when we meet and then becoming friends with them later.

Okay, so there’s my embarrassing laundry for all to see:)  Anyone else willing to share theirs?

Mom: A Mother’s Day Tribute

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Mom. Such a simple word, yet so loaded with meaning and memory. It’s where we all come from. It’s what we simultaneously yearn for and yet try to escape from. My own mother often jokes that the umbilical cord is never fully cut. It just stretches to accommodate.

There’s some truth in that.

Although I’ve only been able to admit that more recently.

For most of my childhood, it was just my mom and I. She worked long hours (Five Ways You Know You’ve Been Raised by a Therapist) so that we could stay in the house and I could stay in the same schools. That consistency provided early security that gave me roots from which to grow. We were close. Sometimes too close. A perimenopausal woman and a hormonal teenager can be quite the powder keg at times!

She tackled a lot as a single mom. She and my dad had purchased a VW Vanagon when I was little. That blue box on wheels became home base for my mom and I as we started our traditions of camping at Lost Maples every Thanksgiving and spending weeks at the Kerrville Folk Festival every summer. I learned the importance of layering against the cold and staying wet in defense of the heat. I learned how to play miniature golf on a closed course using a croquet set (The trick? Spanish moss in the hole so that you can retrieve the ball). I learned that it’s important to secure the screens against the racoons and that butane curling irons let a self-conscious 11 year old girl fix her hair even while she’s camping. I learned the joy of being silly as we played our kazoos on the drives to the campgrounds and invented crazy dances (don’t even ask – not putting the pumpkin dance on YouTube:) ). She instilled in me a love of nature, simple laughter and of quiet escape. I am so thankful to have had those experiences and to be able to continue them forward. Only without the kazoos!

The van:) Notice my fashionable early 90s plaid flannel in the heat of a Texas summer!
The van:) Notice my fashionable early 90s plaid flannel in the heat of a Texas summer!

She didn’t always have it easy raising me. I was a willful child, prone to impatience and peppered with perfectionism. Some things don’t change:) She did a great job of adjusting her parenting to fit me rather than trying to get me to fit into some standard mold. I may have to only mom who had to get onto her kid about the importance of NOT doing my homework (I would beg to leave some of those camping trips early so that I could get back to my work)!. She knew that I pushed myself hard enough (or even too hard) and that her usual role was to encourage me to ease up, not to push me further. At the same time, she recognized those situations where I needed some encouragement and she would not let me weasel my way out (Vanilla, Please).

Yet still, I spent most of my life trying to separate from my mom, as though I could not find myself while till securely tied to her. That’s the thing with moms – we need them but we don’t always want to need them.

Several years ago, my mom prepared a gift for her own mother. She obtained photographs of the matriarchal line in the family going back 7 generations. She worked to size and crop the images to provide uniformity and then mounted them in a long rectangular frame, each woman’s face peering out from a separate oval cut into the tawny mat.

It took my breath away. That line of mothers and daughters. Beginning with a woman that I had never met yet whose lineage I carried and ending with a picture of me. Each daughter a product of the mother before.

Many of those closest to me have lost their mothers, either through death, distance or dementia. Some had their moms for much of a lifetime, some for only a number of years and others never met them at all. Yet they all still carry the imprint of their mothers on their hearts.

They have taught me to be thankful for my own mother. To be grateful for the moments and memories we share.

She is my biggest cheerleader when things are going well and my biggest supporter when my world collapses.

I love the relationship I now have with my mom. I need her and I’m okay with that. Love you, mom:)

photo-235

The Garden

Posted on by stilllearning2b
English: Rhododendron in The Roughs These purp...
Image via Wikipedia

In my old life I had a garden.

When we first moved into our home, the 1 acre yard was a motley medley of scraggly grass and tenacious weeds; too wet to mow and too shady for grass to thrive.  It was a blank canvas.  Slowly, I began to paint, using the medium of small starter plants, tree seedlings obtained from the forestry department, and cuttings and divisions nurtured from friends and neighbors.

I had a vision of a magical woodland retreat, filled with the soft haze of ferns and the subtle flowers of the understory.  For years, this image existed only in my head, the reality of small, young plants planted in a vast, weed-strewn yard looked nothing like a garden.  I spent hours on the weekends and after work attacking weeds and planting replacements.  On days when the weather was prohibitive, I would research plants and growing conditions.  I made annual treks to a budget nursery in a nearby town, filling my car to the bursting points with dreams held in the bright green folds of new growth.

But slowly, it emerged.  I watched 2 foot bald cypress saplings grow to 30 foot trees.  Ferns and hostas spread their roots far and wide under the protective shade of the understory.  Hydrangea proudly held their blooms high, as though no longer ashamed of their companions.  Colors would come and go throughout the weeks: daylilies, Lenten rose, iris, geraniums, azaleas.  Their spectacular shows provided endless variety and interest.

From February through November, I would begin most every day with a walk along the stone path, through the pergolas, and over the boardwalk.  Examining the new growth,watching the wildlife, reveling in the beauty of the plants.  On the weekends, I would bring my papers to grade out to one of the hammocks to enjoy the breezes through the leaves and the interplay of light and shadow.

In my old life I had a garden.

It was painful to walk away from my plants, nurtured for so many years.  I found myself staring at plants around town wistfully, thinking of their counterparts in my yard.  As with much of my transition, it was painful, but also freeing.  I no longer had to worry about the assaults of deer, the dangers of a last freeze, or the effects of a flood.  My weekends were not filled with weeding.  My hands no longer frozen from the cold February soil.

But still, I mourned my plants.  I purchased a pass to the botanical gardens and promised myself a monthly visit.  Now, I walk their perfectly manicured paths and appreciate the beauty created by teams of professionals.  The gardens are stunning, but it’s not the same as one created by my own labor.  My own dreams.

In my old life I had a garden.

The last few years, my nurturing energies have been turned inwards, helping myself to grow and thrive.  I have tried to eliminate the weeds, start new plantings, and encourage growth.  I have become my own garden.

And, now, with home ownership again on the horizon, I look forward to creating a new garden, filled with both familiar and untried plants. A testament to the persistence of life and the beauty of growth.

American Eastern Redbud Tree (Cercis canadensis)
Image via Wikipedia

The Marshmallow Test

Posted on by stilllearning2b

In the Stanford marshmallow experiment, young children were placed alone in a room with a single marshmallow. They were told that if they left the marshmallow alone until the experimenter returned, they would receive two marshmallows. Further studies indicated that children that could delay gratification had better life outcomes in terms of educational attainment and other life measurements.

If I had been administered the marshmallow test as a child by an absent-minded researcher, I would probably still be sitting in that 70s-themed room waiting for the return of the person in the white lab coat.

But is that a good thing?

Are there times when we are better off enjoying the single marshmallow rather than waiting for the promise of two?

I don’t know how I would label this trait in myself. I’m not sure if it is willpower, stubbornness or a fear of not playing by the rules. Probably a bit of all three. Regardless of its origin, I have never had trouble slogging through the muck to get to a goal. I might detour and I’ll certainly complain at times, but I will get there.

In my former life, this trait was put to the test many times. I drug myself through grad school for the promise of an increased salary that would benefit us both (or so I thought). I lived with a decaying deck for over 8 years until we had saved (or so I thought) to build our dream deck. I put off trips so that we could save money (or so I thought). I worked extra jobs, often tutoring 20 hours a week, to help save money for our future (or so I thought). I made sacrifices for the betterment of the marriage (or so I thought).

I was okay ignoring the single marshmallows on the table, confident that the promised two would soon be coming.

Except they never did.

While I was waiting, my ex, who I thought was waiting with me, was raiding the marshmallow stores. When I discovered his multiple betrayals and deceptions, part of my anger was that he was doing those things while I was making sacrifices. I gave and he stole.

As a result of all of this, I’ve changed my approach a bit. I am much more likely to balance decisions between the future and the present. I have learned how to spend money instead of squirreling it all away. I have learned how to enjoy the present instead of always waiting for the future. But I also haven’t really been tested. I’ve been able to live more for today, since my tomorrows have been so unknown.

I’m being tested right now.

I know part of it is that I’m a bit grumpy and frustrated over recent events. We usually go camping over spring break, but Brock had to be out of town for business. Then, strep throat cut short my Asheville trip. We were supposed to be camping this weekend, but this time weather foiled our plans. Hell, even the festival last weekend was impacted by my ex’s unexpected appearance. I’m whiny. I’m pouty. I feel like a kid proclaiming that it’s not fair. All I want is a trip. A break. It doesn’t have to be extravagant or prolonged. Just time away.

So, coming from that place and looking forward to the approaching summer, I brought up the idea of summer getaways with Brock over breakfast yesterday.

It was not the conversation I expected.

He kind of snapped.

He told me that he didn’t have time for trips. That just because I was off work, it didn’t mean that he was. He started talking about the house we intend to buy this fall and the need to save. Underlying these words is the pressure he feels as the primary provider and soon-to-be first time husband to support his family. In his job, unlike mine, more hours and more travel usually equate to a larger paycheck. He is currently choosing to sacrifice time for money for our future.

But he also said he understood my past and my fear of waiting for a future that never occurs.

It ended up being a really good conversation, even though I hate it when I realize how much my past still impacts me. So much of this comes down to trust. I have to trust that he isn’t stealing the marshmallows from behind my back. I have to trust that the promised time and trips will occur after the house has been purchased. I have to trust that we’re in this together.

Damn.

Why is this so hard?

How do I find that balance between waiting and living? Learning from my past and being limited by my past? Trusting and being?

I am ready for a home. I have tired of my nomadic existence over the past four years. I yearn for a place to put down roots and a garden for them to spread. I have only recently allowed myself to get excited about the prospect, however.  Even as I have directed funds towards a down payment, the future home seems like a mirage that will disappear before it becomes reality.

I need to trust.

I can wait for the promised two marshmallows, trusting that they will be there. Trusting that Brock will be there.

life is not a waiting room

Attitude

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I’m often complemented on my positive attitude about everything that happened to me.

It hasn’t always been that way.

I was angry. Furious that the person I trusted most in this world betrayed me in the most horrific ways, causing me to lose everything I held sacred. I cursed him. I dreamed violent dreams. I wanted to cause him pain. I lived in a perpetual state of fury with all flames directed at him.

I was bitter. Resentful that I made choices about my schooling and career based on him and then he abandoned me. I focused on the unfairness of the sacrifices I had made for the marriage and for him that he spit upon with his actions.

I was jealous. Envious of others whose spouses stayed faithful or at least stayed around long enough to talk. I compared my situation to others’ and bemoaned my particular tale.

I was ashamed. Embarrassed that his deceptions went on for years and I did not see them.  I questioned myself endlessly and doubted myself constantly.

I was victimized. I saw myself as hapless prey caught in his crosshairs. I focused on what was done to me, keeping myself at the center of his choices.

My attitude couldn’t do anything to change the past. Being angry wouldn’t make him apologize. Being bitter wouldn’t open up new careers. Being jealous wouldn’t make my ex suddenly faithful and honest. Being ashamed wouldn’t make me pick up on the lies any earlier. And being a victim wouldn’t help me learn how to thrive.

I had no control over the past. No way to change what happened. But I could change how I responded to it.

So, slowly, ever so slowly, I did.

I let go of the negativity that was still holding me hostage. It was not an easy road. It took hundreds of miles running on the trails and hundreds of hours on the yoga mat. It took writing a book and writing a blog. It took therapy and friends. It took a new dog and a new love. And, most importantly, it took time.

The truth is that I still feel those negative emotions towards him and what happened. Some days more than others. The difference is that now I don’t allow them to move in. They visit and go on, leaving room for laughter again.

Look at all that teenage attitude!
Look at all that teenage attitude!

It never ceases to amaze me how much of a difference attitude can make. I recently found myself complaining about my Sunday chore of cooking for the week. I was feeling bogged down and tired of the weekly planning, shopping and cooking that takes up a sizable portion of my weekend. I realized that I was viewing this as part of my work week; I was allowing it to steal several hours of my weekend. Then, I decided that was not okay.

I can’t change my need to cook. It is a necessity for my health, my job schedule and my budget.

So I changed my attitude. For the last few weeks, I have approached my weekly cooking task as though I was making preparations for a dinner party. It makes menu planning more interesting and keeps me in a good place while shopping. As for the cooking? Well, that’s now the best part. I first take some time to prepare some veggies, cracker and hummus and arrange them on a plate where I can nibble while I work. Then, I crank up the tunes – they vary according to the mood of the day and can run from bagpipes to death metal. Finally, I pour a glass of Cabernet to sip on while I chop up the endless pile of veggies.

Sunday cooking has gone from a chore to something I actually look forward to.

And all because I changed my attitude.